"Let me, O let me, to the shades repair,
"My native fhades-there weep, and murmur there.
She faid, and melting as in tears she lay,
In a foft, filver ftream diffolv'd away.
The filver ftream her virgin coldness keeps,
For ever murmurs, and for ever weeps;
Still bears the name the hapless virgin bore,
And bathes the foreft where she rang'd before.
In her chaft current oft' the Goddess laves,
And with celeftial tears augments the waves.
Oft' in her glafs the mufing fhepherd spies
The headlong mountains and the downward skies,
The wat'ry landskip of the pendant woods,
And abfent trees that tremble in the floods;
In the clear azure gleam the flocks are seen,
And floating forefts paint the waves with green.
Thro' the fair scene roll flow the ling'ring ftreams,
Then foaming pour along, and rush into the Thames.
Thou too, great father of the British floods!
With joyful pride furvey our lofty woods;
Where tow'ring oaks their spreading honours rear,
And future navies on thy banks appear.

* The river Loddon,

Not

Not Neptune's felf from all his floods receives
A wealthier tribute than to thine he gives.
No feas fo rich, fo full no ftreams appear,
No lake fo gentle, and no fpring fo clear.
Not fabled Po more fwells the Poet's lays,
While thro' the skies his shining current strays,
Than thine, which vifits Windfor's fam'd abodes,
To grace the manfion of our earthly Gods:
Nor all his stars a brighter luftre show,

Than the fair nymphs that gild thy shore below:
Here Jove himself, fubdu'd by beauty ftill,
Might change Olympus for a nobler hill.

Happy the man whom this bright court approves, His fov'reign favours, and his countrey loves; Happy next him who to these shades retires,

Whom nature charms, and whom the mufe infpires,
Whom humbler joys of home-felt quiet pleafe,
Succeffive ftudy, exercife, and ease.

He gathers health from herbs the foreft yields,
And of their fragant phyfick spoils the fields:
With chymic art exalts the min'ral pow'rs,
And draws the aromatick fouls of flow'rs.
Now marks the courfe of rolling orbs on high;,
O'er figur'd worlds now travels with his eye:

Of

Of ancient writ unlocks the learned store,
Confults the dead, and lives paft ages o'er.
Or wand'ring thoughtful in the filent wood,
Attends the duties of the wife and good,
T'observe a mean, be to himself a friend,
To follow nature, and regard his end.

Or looks on heav'n with more than mortal eyes,
Bids his free foul expatiate in the skies,
Amids her kindred ftars familiar roam,
Survey the region, and confefs her home!
Such was the life great Scipio once admir'd,
Thus Atticus, and Trumbal thus retir'd.

Ye facred nine! that all my foul poffefs,
Whofe raptures fire me, and whofe vifions bless,
Bear me, oh bear me to fequefter'd fcenes,
Of bowry mazes, and furrounding greens;
To Thames's banks which fragrant breezes fill,
Or where ye Mufes fport on Cooper's hill.
(On Cooper's hill eternal wreaths fhall grow,
While lafts the mountain, or where Thames fhall flow

I feem thro' confecrated walks to rove,

And hear foft mufick dye along the grove;
Led by the found I roam from shade to fhade,
By god-like poets venerable made:

Here

Here his first lays majestick Denham sung;

There the laft numbers flow'd from *Cowley's tongue.
O early loft! what tears the river shed,

When the fad poinp along his banks was led?
His drooping fwans on ev'ry note expire,
And on his willows hung each Mufe's lyre.

Since fate relentless stopp'd their heav'nly voice,
No more the forefts ring, of groves rejoice;
Who now fhall charm the fhades where Cowley ftrung
His living harp, and lofty Denham fung?
But hark! the groves rejoyce, the foreft rings!
Are thefe reviv'd? or is it Granville fings?

Tis yours, my Lord, to blefs out foft retreats,
And call the Muses to their ancient feats,
To paint anew the flow'ry fylvan scenes,
To crown the forefts with immortal greens,
Make Windfor-hills in lofty numbers rife,

And lift her turrets nearer to the skies;

To fing thofe honours you deserve to wear,

And add new luftre to her filver ftar.

Mr. Cowley died at Chertsey on the borders of the foreft, and was from thence convey'd to Westminster.

Here

Here noble* Surrey felt the facred rage,
Surrey, the Granville of a former age:
Matchless his pen, victorious was his lance;
Bold in the lifts, and graceful in the dance:
In the fame shades the Cupids tun'd his lyre,
To the fame notes, of love, and soft defire:
Fair Geraldine, bright object of his vow,
Then fill'd the groves, as heav'nly Myra now.

Oh would'st thou fing what heroes Windfor bore, What kings firft breath'd upon her winding fhore, Or raife old warriors whofe ador'd remains

In weeping vaults her hallow'd earth contains!
With Edward's acts adorn the shining page,
Stretch his long triumphs down thro' ev'ry age,'
Draw Monarchs chain'd, and Creffi's glorious field,
The lilies blazing on the regal fhield.

Then, from her roofs when Verrio's colours fall,
And leave inanimate the naked wall;

Still in thy fong should vanquish'd France appear,
And bleed for ever under Britain's fpear.

Henry Howard E. of Surrey, one of the first refiners of the English Poetry; who flourished in the time of Henry VIII. Edward III. born here.

Let